His Name

My mama ears instinctively perked up at the sound of his name. "Drew?" she called out. He answered and followed the instructions. It was my son -- responding to the name that his father and I chose for him. His teacher was merely asking if he'd turn out the classroom lights. It was by no means a monumental request, but my heart skipped a beat, nonetheless. For it was his name.

The power of a name spoken aloud amazes me. I still get a girlish butterfly thrill when Jamie calls my name across a crowded room. I inch a little closer to join a conversation when I hear that friends are using the names of those I love. I feel loved and treasured when my dad calls from California with his familiar, "Hello, Julianna," as he warmly draws out the name that he and my mom created for me.

I am also aware of how precious my name is to my heavenly Father. Isaiah 49: 16 still astonishes me as it takes this familiarity a step further. I am so precious to Him, that I have been engraved on the palms of His hands. There I am held, there I am permanent, there I am protected.

I have mulled over this revelation from time to time, marveling at its vastness, knowing that I will never on earth fully grasp its import or be able to appropriately respond to its depth. But when I heard my son's name called the other day, my mind suddenly visited a question that I believe carries an even greater significance.

How does Jesus respond when I call on His name? Does His heart thrill when I lift my voice in adoration, ignoring the chaos of a crowded room? Does He inch a little closer when He hears me join my friends in a conversation about our blessed Savior? Does He feel loved and treasured when I call with my familiar, "Hello, Lord," as I warmly draw out the Name that He alone can claim?

The answer? A resounding yes. And how do I know this? Because He assures me again and again. The words of Zephaniah 3:17 are beyond incredible:

The Lord your God is with you, He is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, He will quiet you with His love, He will rejoice over you with singing.

It's more than my human mind can fathom. Not only does the Lord save me, but He rejoices over me and He sings over me. So what happens when a girl calls on the powerful Name of her Savior? He absolutely loves it. And so will she.

Moment of Gratitude

Choosing gratitude yesterday when . . . .

Driving home from grocery shopping, crunched for time, music blaring, and I look in the rear view mirror to see my Aidan and Avery singing with all their might. The song? Jesus Paid it All.

Jesus paid it all
All to Him I owe
Sin had left a crimson stain
He washed it white as snow.

And then their voices hush. They simultaneously gaze out the window as the Columbia River zips by, a blue-grey ribbon twisting through the gorge, bordered by dazzling splashes of orange and yellow. Their eyes have carried them away. Yet their lips still move, silently proclaiming the everlasting truth:

Oh praise the One who paid my debt
And raised this life up from the dead.

My heart swells. Thank you, Lord. I continue to choose gratitude.

Gratitude

I sharply sucked in my breath in an attempt to compose myself. Anger had risen to the surface at a surprisingly fast rate. The children had been put to bed. Finally. It was quiet. It was my time. (Oh, self.) And then like little pinballs they took turns spilling from their rooms, bouncing from door to door, stomping on that hardwood floor at a cringe-worthy decibel.

After herding them back to their rooms, I returned to the kitchen. My solitude did not last. Once again, the unmistakable step of a barefoot boy sounded in the hall. He avoided my gaze. "Guilty," I silently sentenced the child. He walked right past me. Going to feign innocence, are we? I watched. The nerve! And then I realized what he was doing. Grabbing a pen, he squatted in front of the dishwasher to add to the list. My eyes closed and I sighed a deep, weary sigh. Back to bed padded the child.

I approached the yellow poster, and a wave of the guilt that I was so quick to assign washed over the deserving one. We had started the list several weeks ago. I didn't think they still used it. But as I began to read, I realized that they had not forgotten. "Thank you Lord . . ." read the title. And then the entries sprawled kid-style across the worn page. Many I had not seen.

"Thank you for giving Aidan clothes for school." "Thank you for giving us money when we needed it." "Thank you for protecting (our friend) Sophia when she could have died." And then, "Thank you for having a nice Mom." (Ouch.) "Thank you for protecting Aidan." "Thank you for giving us a new home to move to . . . ." The thanks continued, but I felt heavy-laden.

When did I cease to give thanks? When had I forgotten? At what point in life's tension did I buckle and decide to choose anger over thanksgiving? It was a poor choice. It was selfish and life-draining. And it accomplished absolutely . . . nothing.

But thankfully, I can choose again. Each day I can choose gratitude. Each day I can choose to die to self and gaze instead on my Savior's face. Each day I can respond to my Friend's irresistible invitation: Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. Indeed, my soul will find rest. For that -- and for countless other blessings -- I am grateful.

Just in Time

This evening I pulled out the flour bin to whip up some banana bread in honor of the brown fruit waiting patiently on my kitchen counter. I smiled as I pulled back the lid. There was my missing measuring cup. I smiled not so much because it had been found, but over the reason it had been lost.

Five days ago I was scooping flour when my sister called. "It's time," she announced with mingled joy, apprehension and a wealth of relief in her voice. And there the measuring cup stayed. The chocolate zucchini cake would wait.

Two hours later, after praying my sister through the agony and the ecstasy, I cradled my beautiful niece, Clara Julianna. Our eyes met, and I was not thinking about the chocolate zucchini cake left undone. No, I was thinking about how drastically -- and wonderfully -- life can change at a moment's notice. A life bound by a divine sense of timing that God, in His unsearchable wisdom, has set into place. One minute I'm measuring flour, the next I'm coaching my sister through one of the most important days of her life.

The reality of this further struck me as I was going through the neglected laundry pile the next day. It was like sorting through a time capsule. There was the blouse that I wore to my birthday dinner . . . . Ah yes, my birthday. The day that Clara was supposed to be born. It was, after all, her due date. How perfect it was to be! But the day slipped by.

And here was the top I wore to my sister's baby shower. (The shower that was planned, I'll have you know, with a newborn in mind, not an overdue mommy and her sympathetic fan club!) The shower that was planned on the only day we could find, the day when both grandmothers would be in town. Nana just in, Noni on her way out . . . . And two more days passed.

Oh, and this one? This was the shirt I was wearing the day I said a tearful goodbye to my parents. The day that was supposed to have taken place well after little Clara's arrival but sadly preceded it. Two more relentless days had passed.

And finally, the top that I threw on before heading to the hospital. Nine whole days had passed, each one painfully ticking by. My parents were in California, bravely embarking on a journey that they did not choose for themselves. A journey that involved a single diagnosis with a million questions*.

Nine days is an eternity for the burdened and overdue (I lay claim to a mere fraction of the stress. My dear sister endured the overwhelming bulk of it.) But when I look at a stressful week in my laundry hamper, it adds up to the same amount of clothing that I wash every week, stressful or not.

Here it all was, piled heavily before me in the domestic form of lights and darks -- the divine passage of time and the questions that arose as a result. We thought we had God's timing figured out. Surely this little one should have come sooner. It was arranged so perfectly. Noni would take part in the delivery and then go to California, not participate via Skype and then fly back for a "visit."

I wonder how God views His piles of laundry. We who are filthy without His cleansing. We who would die without the ultimate blood-washing. We who are sorted and tossed by the world, crammed indifferently into piles, waiting to be made clean. We who arrogantly say, "On such and such a day, my sister shall have a baby," and arrange things according to our own timetable.

But no. This is how I view God's laundry. He doesn't dwell on the filth and depravity, the piles and stains, the slow passage of time. He sees the work that's already been done. Laundry day has come and gone. His timing was perfect. The terrible washing was taken care of long ago. The blood was spilled, and we are . . . beautiful. We are dressed before Him in radiant, spotless white. Eternity is here.

And yet still we wait. Each day we add another garment to the laundry pile, wondering when the big day will arrive. But each day He reminds us that it's already clean. And each day He shows us the splendor of His Son and we have the opportunity to say, "Ah, yes. It's been done. And it's beautiful." And we know that His timing is perfect.

I'm not sure that I'll ever fully understand the strange, stressful circumstances surrounding the last couple of weeks. But I do know that God's timing was not derailed by the passage of nine days. Neither was my chocolate zucchini cake. I finally finished it. And it was delicious -- especially as I sat last night with my mom, my sister, and my precious niece. We ate that cake, and we quietly cherished God's perfect timing.

*To follow my father's prostate cancer journey, please click on his blog link to the right.

Becoming

For the entire first year of her life, we were attached like a pair of koalas. She snuggled contentedly against my heart, her entire body wrapped in cloth against mine. Her tiny spirit was calmed by the rhythm of my life -- my breathing, the murmur of my heart.

As she grew, she slowly began to emerge from the chrysalis. First, her dimpled face and the impressive crown of thick black hair. Widened blue eyes blinked at the faces that smiled into her world. "Look at those eyes!" they said.

And then she was ready for kangaroo style. The little joey, still wrapped against mama, yet now facing away, facing toward the world. Arms were now free. Other hands touched hers. She reached beyond the chrysalis. "Look at those darling rubber band wrists!" they said.

I'd never thought of it in those terms. But yes, the irresistible rings around the chubby wrists did look something like the impression of a rubber band. I wondered when baby wrists lose their rings. I glanced at Aidan's. His were already gone. I determined to pay attention to my baby, to witness the transition into girlhood.

And then one day, she spread her iridescent wings and emerged completely. She toddled back to the chrysalis every once in a while for a snuggle, but she no longer depended on it. "Look at her walk!" they said. But I checked the chubby wrists, just to make sure.

The wrists were still chubby, but it was time to pack away the chrysalis. I gently folded the cloth that had bound us together and tucked it into a box.

Year three whirled by, my butterfly flitting hither and yon. The chubby wrists were decorated with flowing ribbons and streamers as the little ballerina danced before my eyes. "Look at her twirl!" they said. Yes, she could twirl.

One day, the butterfly said,"When will I be four, Mama?" And the mama said, "Very soon. It's almost time for you to be a big girl so you can help Auntie Krissie with her baby." The pink face beamed at the special responsibility.

And then she turned four. We sang, she blew out the candles. She demurred then glowed, and she hopped on her new bike. "Look at her go!" they said. She zipped around the neighborhood on her bright pink bike with her bright pink helmet and bright pink light-up shoes. Her long braids danced in the wake of childhood bliss.

She was tired. I wrapped my baby in a towel after the bath. She wore her new nightgown. We rested together in bed, and she snuggled contentedly against my heart. Her arm wrapped gently around my neck. My spirit was calmed by the rhythm of her life -- her breathing, the murmur of her heart. And then I saw it. Her wrists. My baby had become a girl.